


Welcome Back

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode: s02e02 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II, F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-21
Updated: 2001-03-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: It's funny, but the first thing I notice coming back is the light. Am I dead?





	Welcome Back

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

"Welcome Back"   
Category: Josh/Donna   
Disclaimers: This is NOT being done for copyright infringement OR   
monetary gain, I swear. If you prosecuted everyone who wrote this TWW   
would have no fan base and you wouldn't get much, at least not from   
me.   
Spoilers: ITSO2G 1-2

Author's Note: Josh POV.   
\-----

It's funny, but the first thing I notice coming back is the light. It   
sounds clichéd, but I focus only on the light as the requisite   
thoughts run through my head. Am I dead? Is this the stairway to   
heaven? Or is this one last gasp before I'm flung into the depths of   
hell? What? You ask about hell? Come on, I'm a politician.

It doesn't register yet that there may be other people in the depths   
of hell right now. Images flash through my head. A brown-haired man,   
staring into the void as he contemplates the blood on his sleeve. A   
tall woman doing her job with fierce aplomb, yet I can see her hands   
shake. An older man asleep at his desk, yet tortured by dreams. A   
lanky blonde woman pacing in a window-encased room, waiting   
restlessly for news. And a man without whom none of us would be here,   
lying in a bed much like mine.

I want to touch something, to make sure I'm still here, but suddenly   
I'm seized with incredible pain. I bear it, because it can't be any   
worse than dying. I wonder, is Joanie here? Or did she have something   
to do with this? I can't help but ask myself that. I really do   
believe she watches over me. Her and my father. I've always felt   
lucky, like I have my own set of guardian angels. I guess this proves   
it.

Now I hear clinical voices, there yet not there. They're talking   
about stuff like "internal bleeding" and "lucky to be alive." Thanks,   
Joanie and Dad. I owe ya one. But then I hear more. "Multiple   
sclerosis." "Slight wound could be aggravated." What the hell does   
that mean? I don't have multiple sclerosis. At least I don't think I   
do. And my wounds, from what I can discern, sure as hell weren't   
slight. So they must be talking about someone else. Trust me, of all   
people, to hear someone else's problems in my hazy, nightmare state.

Whoa. Now the pictures come in a relentless parade across my limited   
line of vision. Quick as lightning, they flash like some kind of   
twisted slide show. Gina Toscano's face as she yelled GUN! The   
crowd's pandemonium. Toby being thrown back behind the flow of   
people. Sam and a secret service agent having the foresight to tackle   
C.J. Leo face down on the pavement. Charlie trying to run, just   
trying to get the hell out of the way of the fire. Zoey being thrown   
into the limo. The President... where's the President?

Now this is weird, because I feel a kind of supernatural sensation on   
my legs. It's just a light touch, yet it has the power to throw the   
likenesses from Rosslyn far out of my head. It's oddly comforting.   
It's scary, because I want to reach out and touch whoever's obviously   
here for me, and I can't. But it's just nice to know someone *is*   
here for me.

I want to get out of here so badly. Wherever I am. I have to go to   
work. Gotta change. There's meetings to be held. And Donna says I   
look really hot in my other shirt.

It hits me like the bullet that passed through me: Donna! What she   
must be going through... I hadn't thought of that. There's more than   
just boss-assistant there. We're good friends. And I know that if   
Donna was wherever I am, I'd be out of my mind worrying about her.   
She's one of the greatest people I've ever met. Really. She's quick   
on her feet, smart, sensitive, and funny. And really good at her job.

I don't know, maybe it was fate that made me keep her. She followed   
me like a puppy, and when we were on the campaign she made herself   
invaluable to me. Now I can't imagine my job without her. Who else   
would make sense out of my insane schedule? Who else would threaten   
to bring me coffee? No, I can't fool myself. She's my friend. I'm   
just as worried about her as she probably, hopefully is about me. I'd   
go out of my mind if I were her. But she's not me; she'll be all   
right. She's my angel.

Please, God, let me get a chance to tell her that.

I have to get out of here.

It takes all of my strength, but I have to ask the question. Need to   
give a kick to my dormant vocal chords. Wow. I don't think I've gone   
this long without talking since the President saw fit to give me a   
three-hour lecture on the history and provenance of the White House   
Rose Garden.

The President...

I have to ask it.

"What's next?"


End file.
